Dominos
by morgo7kc
Summary: When Neal's cover is compromised, he is kidnapped by someone who would like to use his talents for their own agenda.
1. Prologue

**A/N: I started this a long, long time ago and kind of randomly decided to post it today. This first chapter is short, (Yes I am going to be pulling one of those annoying "72 Hours Ago" things) but I already have a couple thousand words typed out, so I should be able to update soon. I just need to draw out a plot more in my head. In other news, today is the one year anniversary of me joining FF .net. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: Me? Own White Collar? I wish…**

**Warning: None.**

**Word Count: 258**

**Happy reading!  
><strong>

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><p>Time is an interesting concept. It can speed up when something that you are dreading is going to happen, and it can slow down when you are expecting news. Sometimes, when you are particularly distraught, it can even go backwards.<p>

Right now, for Neal Caffrey, time was standing still. Nathan Lee was carefully holding a gun against Neal's forehead and mouthing words. Okay, he was probably talking, not mouthing, but Neal couldn't hear anything he was saying. A team of FBI agents was shouting at Lee, and music was blaring from somewhere. Between all the noise and the concussion he most likely had, it was hard to process.

Neal was getting aggravated. He had never been a very patient person, and standing still watching a psychopath rant was very boring. He almost wished the man would shoot him already, but considering where the weapon was currently aimed, that wouldn't work out very well for Neal.

Then, Neal was being violently pulled backwards. He locked eyes with Peter, and suddenly wished he hadn't. They were full of intense worry, which didn't make Neal feel much better about the situation. The agent was saying something, but Neal still couldn't make out the words, and he had never picked up on lip-reading. The ground started vibrating and Neal realized that while he was concentrating on his friend, Lee had pulled him back into the black van. The door was slammed shut, and the last person Neal saw before he lost consciousness was Peter.

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><p><strong>AN #2: Any reviews would be much appreciated :)**


	2. Never Undestimate Your Mark

**A/N: Wow, that generated a lot bigger response than I expected. I'll have to get the next chapter up faster for you guys. Thanks to _ChloeHollingsworth, MaraudingSnitch1314, govgal, Mimbillia, beautybells, Duffy1, Less101, truglasgowgal, SherlockXHolmes23 and DeH _for reviewing, as well as everyone who added this to their Alerts and Favorites. This chapter my seem a little confusing in relation to the Prologue right now, but I swear it'll all make sense. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: Me? Own White Collar? I wish…**

**Warning: A swear word or two, no spoilers.**

**Word Count: 946**

**Happy reading!  
><strong>

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><p><em>72 hours earlier<em>

Neal ground his teeth to keep from crying out in pain. Adrenaline, fortunately, had provided him with the much-needed energy to get to safety, but now there was nowhere else to go. He didn't have a cell phone, and his anklet had been conveniently removed before he went undercover. Neal still had the GPS pen Peter gave him before the operation, but judging by its smashed appearance, it was no longer transmitting. Just great_._

Neal sighed to himself, knowing that he would have to move, and knowing it was going to hurt. For the first time in his life, Neal Caffrey found himself wishing he had been shot. He had never liked guns, and he certainly didn't like bullets, but he was sure a gunshot would be a lot less painful than the multiple kicks and strikes Lee's goons had subjected him to. They seemed to have mistaken him for a punching bag. He almost laughed at the irony of the situation. The only case in which the criminal did any serious harm to him, they didn't even know he was FBI. When Nathan Lee had realized the cash was fake, he assumed Neal was trying to rip him off, not arrest him.

Darkness crept into the edges of Neal's vision, and the consultant blinked rapidly. He had a concussion for sure, and could not afford to pass out. The only reason Neal wasn't dead was because, oblivious to the fact that his captive was Neal Caffrey, expert lock picker, Lee had bound Neal with a pair of simple handcuffs. They weren't even as complicated as Peter's, which Neal had mastered with his eyes closed during one particularly-long stakeout. The moment he was left alone, Neal had disappeared out the window. Good thing the room was on the first floor; another hour or two and Neal was as good as gone. Lee had no purpose to keep him alive. This realization reminded Neal how important it was for him to go far, far away before they figured out he was no longer handcuffed to the metal table.

Neal stood up, examining his surroundings. As soon as he did, a wave of nausea hit him, causing the man to nearly fall down. Yup, not such a good idea to move fast. Neal was in a long alleyway between two gray buildings that looked like abandoned warehouses. He walked carefully to the front of the alley, listening for any movement. Streetlights shone brightly on the empty street, but Neal didn't recognize where he was. He couldn't be sure he was even still in New York. Neal had no idea how long he was unconscious before he wound up in front of Lee. Clark, Nathan Lee's number two, had knocked Neal out with a blow to the head at the operation site, and he woke up god knows where. Thinking back to how he got in this particular situation, Neal wondered briefly how Clark and the other henchmen were able to kidnap him when Peter and more agents were not one hundred feet away.

A week ago Neal and Peter had gotten the case. Three valuable sculptures gone missing on different days from the same museum. The unlikely duo found a pattern: all three statues were anonymously donated to the museum during March back in 1953. They were part of a collection of statues—ten in all—that if fenced together were worth one point five million dollars. Word on the street (Mozzie) said the other seven pieces were stolen from a private residence about two weeks prior, by Nathan Lee. "Nick Halden" passed a word to Lee's go-to guy, Daniel Clark, that he was looking to buy the collection. But there was no way the Bureau was going to risk a million and a half dollars, even if Neal _wasn't _a convicted felon. It had been Diana's idea to use the fake currency the team had confiscated from their last case, and Hughes approved it. It was a good idea, and if Lee hadn't noticed the money was fake, everything would have run smoothly. Neal would have "bought" the statues, the recorder pen catching everything, and Nathan Lee would have gone to jail, caught red-handed. Next case. That was the plan, but as Neal had told Peter once before, plans change. The FBI underestimated Lee.

"Con Man 101," Neal whispered to himself. "Never underestimate your mark."

Lee DID know the money wasn't real, and he managed to flee with the statues plus one consultant, despite the FBI being in a van within sight of the deal.

Suddenly, the sound of a gun cocking alerted Neal that he was no longer alone. He turned slowly to see Lee aiming a pistol at his forehead. Crap.

"We weren't done talking, Halden. And we were having so much fun, too." He smiled, a gesture that one might mistake as friendly. But through his life as con man Neal had seen every type of smile there was. He knew the difference between a smile that said "we're buddies" and the sickly grin Lee was giving him now. He returned it.

"Oh, we weren't? My bad." Lee didn't like that very much.

"Don't mess with me, Caffrey! Remember who has the upper hand here." Nathan nodded his head towards two men, muscle weight of two fifty and IQ of ten, coming up from behind him. At Neal's alarmed look, he continued. "Yeah, I know who you _really _are." _Great, _Neal thought, contemplating why in the world he ever figured working for the FBI was a good idea. _I'm toast._

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><p><strong>AN #2: Happy Easter, everyone! I doubt I'll have time to update tomorrow due to things going on with family and such, but I am on Spring Break now so Monday is looking good for the next chapter. Any and all reviews will be greatly appreciated!**


	3. Illusion of Generosity

**A/N: My dearest reviewers, thank you! You have no idea how much I appreciate you all taking the time to not only read, but leave your wonderful comments. Hopefully this chapter will not disappoint, I am hoping to make the next one a bit longer.**

**Disclaimer: Me? Own White Collar? I wish…**

**Warning: A very slight reference to By the Book, but it won't spoil anything if you haven't seen that episode.**

**Word Count: 818**

**Happy reading!**

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><p>"<em>Did you bring the money?"<em>

"_Of course, in the brief case."_

Peter listened intently to the conversation over the microphone. It still amazed him how Neal could easily fool even the cleverest people. The agent knew his friend was secretly nervous as hell about this operation; even Hughes was a tad uneasy. Lee was dangerous. There was a whole list of "alleged" crimes in his file—ranging from petty theft to murder—that no one could ever pin on him. Yet Neal sounded as comfortable and at ease as when he was talking to Peter or Mozzie.

He glanced around, momentarily zoning out of the conversation. Jones and Diana were sitting beside Peter, Agent Blake was standing behind them, all with an ear to a set of headphones. A probie, Henderson, was in the driver's seat. The sound of static drew back Peter's attention.

"What happened?"

"Something's blocking the signal," Jones answered, checking the equipment. "GPS too. Should we go in?" Peter started to shake his head, saying to give Neal a chance to close the deal, but he was stopped by the sound of tires screeching, and a car speeding away.

"Follow them!" he called up front, although the SUV was already moving. Henderson took off, and the four agents had to grab onto objects in the van to prevent falling over. The vehicle lurched left, then right, sped straight for a while, and then stopped abruptly. A few mumbled curses came from the front.

"They disappeared. Took off down a street and one of those big produce trucks got between us. I don't know where they went." Peter sighed, running a hand through his hair. He had had a feeling this wasn't going to go the way he'd hoped.

"Okay, go back to the warehouse. Neal must still be there." Henderson nodded in understanding. The ride back was slightly longer, since the van was no longer speeding full force. Peter spent the time brainstorming a way to catch Lee before he fled the country, with the statues. He was so deep in thought that he didn't notice the van had stopped, or that his junior agents had gotten out, until Diana came back wearing a grim expression. This couldn't be a good sign.

"Diana, what is it?"

"You need to see this." Peter let Diana lead him inside. He did a three-sixty-turn of the building. The dirty cement floor was littered with dozens of dusty footprints, and so much paint was chipped off the walls it was hard to tell that they were painted at all. This place definitely hadn't been used (for legal purposes) in years. From his position, Peter could see everything, and Neal was nowhere to be found. The feeling of intense worry in his gut increased. Something wasn't right. Diana gestured over to where Jones was crouching down looking at the ground, about twenty feet away. As Peter walked closer, his stomach dropped. The dirt was scuffled, with the appearance that someone had fallen. Beside it, there were skid marks, presumably from the vehicle the agents had chased. They led to an open garage-sized exit, where the criminals obviously drove out of. None of this was what worried Peter, though. He swallowed hard.

"Blood."

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><p>Neal was tied to the table again … this time, with ropes. No picking them. He was starting to mentally calculate the chances of him making it out alive (the way he figured, it was slim) when Clark came striding into the dimly-lit room.<p>

"Caffrey," he deadpanned. Well, wasn't he just a ray of sunshine.

"Clark," Neal replied, mimicking the other man's tone.

"Lee decided he's going to cut you some slack, since you _were _one of us. Once." Neal assumed he meant a thief.

"How generous." Sarcasm was evident. Clark ignored it.

"You work for us, you can live." Neal just glared. "I'll take that as a yes."

"What kind of 'work' did you have in mind?" Clark waved him off.

"We'll talk more later." _Sure, _Neal thought. _I'll just wait here. _Turning back towards the door, the man added one last thing. "I wouldn't try to escape again if I were you, Caffrey. It would be awful if something happened to your Fed friend. Burke, right?" Neal sighed. He knew they were going to play that card sooner or later. If Lee knew his real name, it was only a matter of time before he knew everything. This was not going to be an easy predicament to get out of. The moment Clark was gone, the overhead bulb flickered out. Neal welcomed the darkness.

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><p><strong>AN #2: I grant anyone who leaves their thoughts on this chapter a lifetime of joy and happiness. :)**


	4. Hopeful Wishes

**A/N: A/N: Hello! Sorry about that three-month hiatus. I kind of temporarily lost my inspiration for this story, and life got in the way. But I promise, I'm back! A HUMONGOUS thanks to my beta, _mam711_ for helping me get this out. I have some more written, but I need time to go over corrections and think some things through before I post it. Sunday at the absolute latest. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: Me? Own White Collar? I wish…**

**Warning: References to Bottlenecked and Front Man, just names. **

**Word Count: 878**

**Happy reading!  
><strong>

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><p>Peter groaned at his empty coffee mug. Neal had been missing for 30 hours, and Peter had slept a total of two since then. He'd sent Jones and Diana home hours ago, but neglected to take his own advice. Peter was just about to read the entire Lee file (for the eighth time) when someone knocked on his door.<p>

"Come in." It was Hughes.

"Peter, go home."

"Reese I'm—"

"Go home and rest, that's an order. You and your team can pick up tomorrow morning." Peter almost protested again, but he knew his boss was right. They had gotten no new information at all, and Peter had been mostly daydreaming for the past hour. That, and drinking coffee. He started for the door, taking the file with him, despite Hughes's exasperated stare. When Peter was almost at the stairs leading to the bullpen, Reese patted him on the back.

"You'll find him."

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><p>Neal had been hoping the same thing for hours. Clark still had not elaborated on their previous conversation, and the only other human contact was when another one of Lee's accomplices (Neal thought his name was TJ) brought him water and a stale turkey sandwich. Just when he was beginning to think Clark made it all up to mess with him, he returned.<p>

"We have a job for you, Caffrey." Neal almost rolled his eyes. Couldn't anyone do their own legwork anymore? First Keller, then Wilkes, and now this guy. "The Met has a very nice Edgar Degas painting that Lee admires. You're going to steal it." He began to cut off Neal's bindings.

"You know, I'm not really a big fan of Degas. I prefer Rembrandt myself. Or Haustenberg."

"Shut up." Clark pulled out of his pocket what looked like a metal wristwatch—without the clock part—and handed it to a now-standing Neal. "Put that on. It's so we can track you, kind of like your Fed friends. You'll be dropped off about a block from the museum. When you have the painting, return to that location. Any questions?" Clark was walking back to the room entrance again, motioning for Neal to follow. He didn't.

"Just one. You mind telling me which Degas it is? 'Cause it's a bit hard to take it without knowing."

"It's called _The Dance Class_, second floor," Clark growled. He pushed Neal out the door, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the consultant saw daylight. It was blindingly bright, streaming in through paned windows, and Neal was grateful for the few seconds he had to enjoy it before a gray rag was shoved over his face. The strong, sweet smell that Neal knew to be chloroform overtook him. Right before he blacked out, he heard the words, "Remember what's at stake," whispered in his ear.

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><p>As much as he wanted to, Peter didn't go straight home. He had a meeting with Mozzie at Neal's apartment. Peter had alerted him of their friend's kidnapping shortly after the fact, hoping the little man could gather some information unavailable to police. The housekeeper let him in cheerfully, unaware of Neal's predicament. June was away—visiting her son in New Hampshire—so there was no need to worry the household just yet. Peter expected Neal's door to be unlocked, but he knocked anyway, so as not to startle the paranoid Mr. Haversham.<p>

"State your name and business!"

"It's me, Mozzie. Open the door."

He complied. "Suit, do come in."

Peter wasted no time. "Did you find anything?"

"Not much that's helpful. I've been calling up all my old contacts, but nothing's turned up. Lee's world and the world we operate in are very far apart." Peter had started pacing at 'not much' and was now squinting off into space, like whenever he had a sudden realization about a case.

"What do you mean by that?"

Mozzie shrugged nonchalantly, and answered, "There are really two groups of thieves: the ones who look for any possible way to pull a job without involving violence, even if it's more risky, like Neal; then there is Lee's crowd, who use guns indiscriminately. People generally don't mix."

"So, Lee wouldn't have known that Neal's FBI." It was a statement, not a question, but Mozzie responded anyway.

"Probably not. I doubt he's ever even heard of him, let alone know he's with the Feds."

"Then Lee took Neal for another reason," Peter mumbled, mostly to himself. He wasn't sure whether this was good news or bad. Besides, just because Nathan Lee didn't know who Neal was before, didn't mean he hadn't figured it out. Looking at his watch, Peter decided it was too late to think about it any further. Tomorrow. Early. "Thanks, Mozzie; let me know if you find anything out."

"_If you think you can, you can. If you think you can't, you're right."_

"Henry Ford. I'll take that as 'good luck'. Likewise, Haversham."


	5. Decoding

**A/N: Spending all day in planes, airports and rental cars is not fun (at least I was able to read fanfic on my phone during the layover!) so I was too tired to finish this yesterday. Thank you so much to my beta _mam711_ who helped me fix this chapter into something that made actual sense. Any further mistakes are my own. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: Me? Own White Collar? I wish…**

**Warning: None.**

**Word Count: 1,188  
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**Happy reading!**

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><p>Elizabeth Burke was sitting on her couch, absentmindedly stroking Satchmo while watching some meaningless reality TV show that just happened to be on. Peter had called about forty-five minutes ago, saying he was headed home. He still had no luck on discovering Neal's whereabouts and she was sure he wouldn't have come home at all if it weren't for his boss insisting. Elizabeth was certainly glad her husband was working so hard to find Neal—the consultant was her friend too and she wanted him safe—but she was worried about Peter as well. Oftentimes during a case he would work himself way too hard, neglecting sleep and other basic human needs. Plus, this case was far more important to him than the usual heist or political scam. She heard the front door opening.<p>

"Hey, El." Elizabeth winced at the evident exhaustion in his voice, and she was grateful that Hughes had finally sent him home.

"Hey, honey. Has Mozzie found anything?" Peter gave her an inquisitive look. "Who else would you be talking to right now? And the drive from the Bureau isn't forty-five minutes."

"No," Peter sighed. "He says Lee's business is outside the knowledge of his normal sources' expertise. Maybe tomorrow."

"Did you eat?" He shrugged a response. "I'll take that as a no. There's some leftover spaghetti in the fridge; I can heat it up for you." Peter smiled and reached out to hug his wife.

"That'd be great. I love you." He trudged up the stairs, presumably to change out of his work clothes. Elizabeth walked to the kitchen to microwave the pasta.

The scent of tomato sauce and Parmesan cheese filled Peter's nostrils as he made his way downstairs, now in a pair of comfortable pajama pants and a white T. The agent wondered briefly how he wound up with such a wonderful wife. He didn't recall meeting any other woman who could handle an FBI agent's odd hours, and all the fallout and consequences from the Fowler incidents among other things, without complaint. And he definitely didn't know another soul who would sit up till—he checked the clock—11:13 at night just to make sure their spouse ate dinner. Peter Burke was a lucky man indeed. He hoped that luck would help him find Neal, too.

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><p>While Peter was enjoying a meal cooked and prepared by the founder of Burke Premiere Events<em>, <em>his partner was up to a more unsavory task: breaking into the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He must have been given several exposures to the chloroform, Neal decided. Hours had passed since Clark talked to him—if the complete and utter darkness outside was any indication—and the drug's effects were usually shorter. Neal hesitated on the lawn of the museum. It wasn't that he didn't know how to get in (he had an entrance and exit strategy memorized from stealing a van Gogh six years back), but that he didn't want to. Pulling a heist wasn't nearly as thrilling when you were being forced to by people who were threatening your friends. The con man looked at the tracker on his wrist, and wished he could just rip it off and escape Lee's clutches. That wasn't an option, though. They would hurt Peter, and who knows who else. Neal couldn't guarantee he'd get to the agent in time to warn him. Neal Caffrey did a lot of things, but he never gambled with his friends' lives. He entered the museum.

"I see you made it okay," Lee observed. It was hazardous to walk the streets of New York City with a stolen canvas—covered or not—so Neal would have been relieved to hand it off, if it weren't for the fact that he was returning to somewhere worse than jail. The caper would be reported to the FBI the next morning, no doubt. Hopefully, Peter would be assigned to the case, or at least get a look at the crime scene. He was the only one who would understand the message. Neal had scrawled it quickly on the wrapper from his sandwich using a half-dried-out pen irresponsibly left lying around by Lee's staff. Code was necessary in case he was patted down and one of them found the note. Neal was counting on his friend's good memory to decipher it.

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><p>The next morning there was still nothing new, and Peter was beginning to consider the possibility that Lee had taken Neal to the moon. He reached for another sip of coffee, but was disappointed with an empty cup. Peter scooped it up and made his way to the machine in the bullpen (not paying attention to where he was going) and managed to run into another agent. Peter sputtered apologies and bent down to help Agent Owens pick up the file he dropped. Something caught Peter's eye: a photograph of a note with a vaguely-familiar code written on it.<p>

"What case are you working?" Peter inquired, studying the picture.

"Degas stolen from the Met last night. That was left at the scene." Yes, Peter definitely recognized this cipher.

"Do you mind if I borrow this?"

"You can keep it—I've got copies." Owens went on his way and Peter returned to his office, coffee mission forgotten. He excitedly got out a clean sheet of notebook paper, and remembered a situation that had taken place months earlier.

_"Peter, you honestly think you can make a code I can't crack?" Peter had no idea how the pair had gotten on the topic, but Neal and he had been arguing for five straight minutes about who was better with codes._

_"Sure. In fact, try this one." The agent scrawled out sixteen sets of seemingly complete gibberish on scrap paper. _

_It took his friend all of thirty seconds to say, "Easy.'Neal is annoying me'. That's not very nice, Peter."_

Of course Neal would remember that. Peter blinked out of his daydream and read over the code again:

**pnjlq. aevlp. twzur. ieryy. rasoh!**

**qlfg. etub. gedd. sjuu! iuzwl. srhyp. xianv. nrevb. agpng! mt. re! ax. ds! trpoc. bhgii. idfzp. wechg. fzalp? rhi. eyr. hss! tdaspinfywq. sheqpnfhzde. rdqatengipl. pepgnxahvew. aqzvbduapew. gtahpoiicen. edwhflpinxc. endoigqpnmv. ijcnbefpokj. bnalqpicdxy. gdticswpohl! iyf. oes. wuw? waes. uiff. lopc. nlbd! tub. wrx. yhm! pt. oc! gcasney. ogcaqmn. dnpurrc. taqpold. gaejjnv. cdzyhjl. ktwsxyu! arxwp. gaycv. qawpi. iusdm. qnedg?**

**nrtt. sedx. awlp. flnk!**

It was amazing he had recognized the code style at all, with such a short first glimpse, but it was easy to figure out after careful examination. The entire message was translated when Diana strolled in:

**peter**

**lees using me as thief. hes threatening you. will try to contact again.  
><strong>

**neal**

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><p><strong>AN #2: I'm currently listening to the Beatles' _Yesterday_. Isn't that reason enough to review?  
><strong>


	6. A Bigger Job

**A/N: Thank you, everyone, for sticking with me. Reviews are one of my favorite things in the world and I'm happy so many of you are still reading this. Thank you to my beta, _Elizabeth Burke _who helped me out with this chapter incredibly. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: Me? Own White Collar? I wish…**

**Warning: None.**

**Word Count: 1,174  
><strong>

**Happy reading!**

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><p>"Neal left us a message!"<p>

Diana stopped dead in her tracks.

"What?"

"A Degas was stolen from the MET last night; Agent Owens is the case agent. I bumped into him and found this photograph." Diana came closer to get a better look at the picture on her boss's desk.

"It looks like piece of trash with random letters on it." Peter smiled. "But that's not all, is it?"

"It's a cipher I came up with a while ago and showed Neal. He was definitely there, here's the translation." Diana read it quickly.

"So, Lee is making Neal do his dirty work, and using you as leverage."

"Seems that way. Good news is that means Lee's keeping him alive. I don't know for how long, though. I need you to get all the information about this robbery that the bureau has, and, ah, get in contact with Agent Owens. Fill Jones in, have him help you."

"On it." When she was gone, Peter picked up his cell.

"Suit, how did you get this number?"

"You gave it to me, remember? After Neal was released from prison the last time? For emergencies only, ringing any bells?" Peter explained, exasperated. Sometimes Mozzie's paranoia was exhausting.

"Possibly."

"I called you on it yesterday."

"Whatever. What's the emergency?"

"What do you know about Degas's, _The Dance Class_?

"It was stolen from the MET late last night. Pretty nice price tag, but nothing major. Not like _a Matisse_. Why?"

"Lee made Neal steal it. He left a note at the scene in code, saying Lee's using Neal as his thief and he is going to try to make contact again." Silence. "Mozzie?"

"When you find Neal, the FBI won't use that against him, will they? Prosecute him for the theft?" Mozzie had a good point. Peter had every reason to believe Neal would receive the same amnesty as anyone else in his situation—ex-con or not. He was a hostage, he had no option but to do what his captors told him to until he was rescued, in order to protect himself and others. The bureau would understand that, right? But Peter could worry about that after he brought Neal home safely.

"I doubt it. Let me deal with that later. We need to find Neal first."

"I'll poke around, see if I can find out what Lee's purpose is. He's going through a lot of trouble for small-time museum heists. He could've easily snatched the Degas himself, or had one of his own guys do it." That was a good point as well. Was Nathan Lee using Neal out of pure convenience, or was he playing a bigger game? What else did he have up his sleeve?

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><p>After the robbery, Neal had been left alone for several hours. He didn't feel like sleeping so he instead silently reminisced about his past cons, favorite aliases. Steve Tabernackle came to mind and a mischievous smile played over his lips. It was cut short when Clark opened the door.<p>

"So you were successful. Good."

"My pleasure," Neal snapped. He supposed he should be more careful when talking to a violent man who would like nothing more than to shoot him with the gun in his hands, so Neal bit his tongue from saying more. But Clark was already angry. He slammed the door and rushed over to Neal, sticking the gun underneath his chin roughly.

"Listen, _conman_," Clark spat, venom in his words, "if it were up to me you'd be dead already. Lee is the only thing standing between this bullet, and your skull. _Don't_ toy with me. Understood?" Clark pressed the gun a little harder against Neal's skin, and Neal winced, nodding. Clark pulled the gun away, and paused for effect before pocketing it. "Lee seems to think you could be useful to keep around for a while. Let's just say I don't agree."

"That has to be tough, having unresolved conflicts with your boss," Neal said unsympathetically. Judging from the killer glare Clark gave him then, and the way his hands moved to rest on the weapon in his pocket, Neal decided to just keep his mouth shut.

"I have another task for you, but this one is a little bit _bigger_ of a job." Well that was ominous.

"And what would that be?"

"The FBI has some evidence against a friend of Lee's. Lee owes him a favor, so..."

"You want me to steal it."

"Exactly."

"Would this friend happen to be in prison right now? Awaiting trial, possibly?"

"Ricki Klima. You know him?" Of course Neal knew him. Organized Crime had been ecstatic when about three weeks before, after over two years of trying to get some proof, the mobster had been arrested. Neal also knew the case was airtight. But if the conviction-worthy evidence suddenly went missing, Klima was back on the streets.

"No."

"Well because Klima's alleged activities involved some stolen artwork, everything was placed in the White Collar evidence locker." Neal remembered that too; Ruiz had been pissed as hell, as if White Collar's locker was any less secure than Organized Crime's two floors below.

"And how do you propose I sneak into the FBI offices, full of agents, at any hour, take, probably, an entire box or two of evidence, and sneak out without being seen by any cameras, or people?"

Now it was Clark's turn to smile mischievously.

"You see that's the fun part. We're having something arranged so the building will be cleared for a good few hours, giving you plenty of time." Neal didn't like the sound of that.

"What kind of, 'something'?"

"We know a guy who's good with bombs, if you catch my drift." He liked the sound of that even less. He knew Lee was a psychopath, but put a bomb in the FBI? He had to think fast.

"Wait, what if I could find a way to do it. A cleaner way. If you set a bomb off it could destroy the evidence."

"Whether it's stolen or destroyed, doesn't make a difference to us. But if you have something in mind that might be convenient, I'm all ears." Neal hesitated. He had some idea, but he needed to contact Mozzie.

"Give me some time." Clark considered that.

"We're leaving in three hours. If you can formulate a plan before then, fine. If not..."

"I will," Neal assured him. He just hoped it would work.


	7. The Decoy

**A/N: While I'll admit this took quite a while, a lot has been going on in my life right now. The next chapter is already half written so I'm hoping to have it up by the end of the week. Thank you so much to my amazing beta, Elizabeth Burke, without whom this story wouldn't be half as good as it is. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: Me? Own White Collar? I wish…**

**Warning: None.**

**Word Count: 1,132**

**Happy reading!**

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><p>Clark had given Neal three hours. Nearly and hour and half of that had already passed, and Neal was getting nervous, when finally, Lee's other goon (Jake; the pair hadn't really been careful to keep their names from Neal) walked in. Clark had been having them bring Neal food about thrice a day. The meals weren't exactly five-star quality (half of a soggy sandwich, cold pizza, partially eaten Chinese food, etc.) but enough for Neal to keep up his strength to do Lee's bidding. It hadn't taken long to discover Jake and TJ weren't the sharpest knives in the drawer, so hopefully, manipulating them would be easy.<p>

"Clark told you, right?" The goon put the dishes he was carrying on the ground and stared at Neal, baffled.

"No," he drawled. Neal feigned annoyance.

"Of course he forgot. Listen, I need a cell phone to contact my guy. He'll need at least an hour notice to get the stuff ready," Neal said, trying not to reveal the fact he was lying through his teeth.

"What stuff?"

"For the FBI! You knew we were placing a bomb in the building?"

"Yeah."

"Well Lee's guy fell through, so Clark told me to call in mine. He said you could get me a phone." Jake at least had the brains to look hesitant at the suspicious request. "Look, if that's too hard I can find one myself," Neal snapped impatiently.

"I'll do it," the goon replied and left the room, returning shortly with a cell before leaving again. Neal took a second to bask in his relief, but this wasn't over yet.

The cell was a simple flip with a standard keypad; a tedious choice for the modern American, but it would work just fine for Neal's purposes. He dialed Mozzie's emergency number, as he'd lost track of the day of the week and knew Mozzie always had this one on him.

"…Hello?"

"Moz, it's me."

"Neal? Where are you?"

"I don't know, they've been knocking me out. I might not have much time. Do you remember that job in Topeka?"

"Of course, perfect recall. And that was _genius_."

"I hope so, we need to do it again. On the FBI."

"Why?"

"I don't have time to answer questions, Moz. Clark's made it clear it's either this, or a bomb. A real one. Can you do it?"

"You know I can. When?"

"As soon as possible. Clark will put his plan into motion if it's more than an hour."

"I'll handle it. Neal, are you…okay?" _Was_ he okay? Lee hadn't seriously hurt him, Clark had only made threats. If he wasn't "useful" Neal was sure he'd be as good as gone, but for now, he was okay.

"Yeah, Moz, I'm fine. Just don't tell Peter about this. Not until after."

"The Suit will not hear a word. Good luck, Neal." Neal hung up. The hardest part was over; he knew Mozzie would hold up his end. Now he just had to wait.

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><p>Peter stared at the empty spot on the wall with such fascination, you'd think it had the ability to tell him where Neal was being held. The area was still a crime scene (something the MET's staff was not pleased about) and after he explained the situation Agent Owens was more than happy to let Peter look around. He'd started from the spot the code was found—approximately 20 feet from where the painting had been hanging—and walked the entire floor from each direction. He found absolutely nothing. Now he was examining the wall that once held the Degas, hoping for some further hint. The appearance of Neal's code an hour ago had made Peter ecstatic, but he'd now realized it didn't help much. Neal didn't mention where he was, (he probably didn't even know), the museum heist angle gave them nothing, and Lee being Neal's kidnapper was information the team already knew. The most helpful line was "will try to contact again".<p>

The ringing of his cell phone pulled Peter out of his daze.

"Boss, I've been looking further into Lee's criminal background, and I found something interesting. You'll want to see this."

"I'll be right there." He looked at the time on his cell screen as he pressed 'end call'. Was it really only eleven o' clock? Neal had been gone for just forty-four hours. To Peter, it felt like hundreds.

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><p>Peter hurried into the White Collar office, a spring in his step for the first time in two days. Diana hadn't mentioned what exactly she'd found, or if it would assist them in locating Neal in any way, but Peter was hungry for new information. If it had to do with Lee, he wanted to know.<p>

Being quarter to twelve, most agents in the bullpen were clearing their desks of files and photos, and pulling brown-bag lunches from their drawer. Peter wasn't the only workaholic; it was a rare occasion if more than ten percent of FBI agents went out to eat on a Wednesday afternoon.

Diana was at her computer, Jones hunched over next to her.

"What've you got?" Diana pulled up a minimized window and was about to speak, but paused.

"Do you smell that?" Peter and Jones sniffed the air.

"Garlic? Or maybe mustard…" Jones said. Peter looked frantically around the room. He spotted a brownish-yellow gas beginning to seep out of the air vents at the top of the walls.

"Mustard gas. Jones, get everyone out of the office, **now**. Diana—"

"Already dialing." Into the phone she said, "We have a possible biological attack on the twenty-second floor, we need to get everyone out of the building immediately!"

Jones stood on top a chair and began shouting similar warnings, and Peter ran to help hold open the office doors for the mob of agents running to the stairs. Within seconds a hazard alarm was going off and the stairs were crowded with people coming from all floors.

In less than ten minutes (they _were_ trained for this) all but a few were standing outside, waiting for the SWAT team. Peter, Jones and Diana were standing in a huddle with the other White Collar agents, none of whom had any idea what was really going on inside the building.

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><p><strong>AN #2: My best wishes to all who are dealing with the aftermath of hurricane Irene right now. May you and your families remain safe.**


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